


Triptych of purity and emptiness

by tco



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Bottom Dean, Dream Sex, M/M, PTSD, Purgatory
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-12
Updated: 2013-02-13
Packaged: 2017-11-29 01:47:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,436
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/681312
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tco/pseuds/tco
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Realization comes in stages.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

_Dean Winchester had lived with “kill it before it can fuck you up” as his general rule to deal with the monsters. One day, against everything he knew, he allowed an exception._

_There was nothing more left to fuck up in him, after all._

_He’s been already fucked up dry._

_So why worry._

*

 

Aside of a good plan, Benny had a great deal of suspicions from the very beginning. It was a risky campaign to try to ally with a legendary hunter in a fucking frenzy. Rumors had it that the Winchester boy had lost it. Rumors had it that he’s been running around in his killing spree with only one question ever coming out of his constantly blood-stained mouth. That in itself would have been, of course, more than understandable for Benny, and as such, it was quite boring. But it was just the main part of the news, a general alarm for the citizens of Purgatory. It even worked to some extent, because Dean fucking Winchester was the man who, during the past few decades, gave a great deal of the inhabitants their one way ticket there. And then that Norman Bates showed up again, to put them fuck knows where this time, which was just plain rude. He was the one celebrity everybody knew, but no one actually wanted to meet. Tough luck, some did. And thanks to them, there was a second, definitely more interesting part of the gossip, if anyone wanted to make an inquiry.

So, out of boredom, Benny did want to and later he was quite grateful for it because he gained information that gave him an outline of an idea. Because damn, wasn’t this Winchester a peculiar little shit with all his marbles out of place and on fire at the same time.

First of all, his million dollar question had nothing to do with the idea of exit.

Secondly, sometimes Dean Winchester was actually waiting for an answer. But sometimes he wasn’t. Sometimes he didn’t seem to give a shit or perhaps it was the exact opposite: maybe he gave so much of it he couldn’t handle waiting or knowing, because the blade started the exact moment where the question ended and just like that – heads were falling.

Finally, it was very useful to learn what was the death omen war cry all about. Seemed to be plain as hell: where’s the Angel. And that’s that. And suddenly, it was everybody’s fucking problem. Mister Manson out there and his Angel were Purgatory’s goddamn Lennon and Yoko Ono. Everyone wanted them to get back together, because once they reunited all the Spanish inquisition of _where’s the feathery dick that fits my filthy mouth best_ shit would be over. And the whole Purgatory could rest in peace, not in pieces. It was that simple.

Except that soon enough, Benny learned that no, it wasn’t. It could be, but it was the most messed up shit ever, and Dean himself was the one making it so difficult. The rumors did not give justice to the truth, they weren’t even close. Whatever before him was close, died. So, yeah, what Benny got was not exactly what he applied for.

*

Dean Winchester was the most fucked in the head thing to ever walk these lands. The most terrifying as well, Leviathans included. But it was the first part that actually made Benny unsure of anything anymore, not the latter. The vampire couldn’t wholeheartedly blame Dean, though. The man kept creating hell not only for those around him, but to himself as well, unconsciously.

And things could have gone so easy. Or at least Benny thought so until he was privileged (or cursed) enough to learn what theangel really was. And what’s more interesting, he understood it before that homicidal companion of his actually did. And this was what made things really complicated. Going all Al Quaida because of something most important to you is one thing. But doing it for something that crawled deep under your skin so you can’t put your finger on it, not to even mention letting you actually scratch it, so you don’t even know why it’s so important, but god himself damn you – it is – this gives the whole holy mission Waco quality. And how do you reason with a man who can not even reason with his own heart at all?

 

As already established, Benny had his suspicions. By the river, he needed no further proof anymore.

At the start, Benny was very curious as of to who the Angel actually was. Was it a vulnerable woman? Was it a thought to be “an alternative path to get out” sort of a thing? Was it something without what the universe would actually collapse? Was it really an angelic thing to begin with? Benny had doubts often enough. How could something supposedly this pure make someone this inhuman? Because, really. Benny’s seen and done some nasty shit in his lifetime and in his death time as well, but here – Dean was the monster, no contest. When Benny looked at him in action, in the very moment those four syllables were piercing the ether, he witnessed his eyes shining with something so primal and insane, he couldn’t help but shudder. And if there was a God still in the business, Benny thought, and he had to build another dimension to lock away his most blood lusting creation, the crown would go for Dean. Because when he was saying those words, his face, his human face, was cringing in a smile so out of control it was the mimic equivalent of a scream in the middle of the night, heard in a place where you could have sworn you were the only thing to be – that’s the kind of fear it was awaking in those who were unlucky enough to taste it. Anytime Benny had a chance to look away, he did. Something in that face was too disturbing to look at. The Angel thing wasn’t far from evolving into a solid concept of something corrupting, so Benny didn’t really know what could he possibly expect to see once they found it. Things got even scarier once Benny accidentally realized during one night watch that whatever it was, Dean was fiercely praying to it, so the next day he could go on with killing somewhat it its name.

Cas. Didn’t sound like a scary thing. But then again, neither does death if you don’t know the language in which the word has been spoken.

So, other than from curiosity, it was a wise choice in general to seek for an answer to what he was about to deal with.

Surprisingly enough, Dean turned out to be more and more of a talkative man as their time together passed by, its flow measured with the amounts of blood that they had shed. While remaining quite wary, he seemed to have no problems with talking about small things every now and then, mostly in an attempt to relieve an after fight stress, or, perhaps, as Benny suspected, to force his thoughts to abandon a different burning matter. Dean liked to talk about his favorite foods, some musicians Benny had no idea about, stuff he considered fun facts about his hunts. Even more, he liked to explain how much the world as of now differed from the times Benny knew it, and used to put a lot of effort into explaining the development of cinematography, music and why all of that was so important. Sometimes, Dean even mentioned his younger brother. And whenever a note of worry would slip into his words, he used to shift the topic into Sam’s childhood years instead of his current possible situation.

But those were never long conversations, assuming it was even adequate to call them so. It was always more of a ripped out paragraph from an unknown book found unexpectedly on the floor.

And all of this was quite odd, considering the fact that the very thing which held whole of Dean Winchester’s actual, conscious and aggressive interest – the Angel issue of course – was never mentioned, not even by accident, not once. And if it wasn’t for the fact that Benny heard from enough other folks in Purgatory that the Angel was actually a real, corporeal and already witnessed thing, he’d think that Cas was some kind of a peculiar need or concept, rather than a person with a personality, a life, a past or a future.

This stunning secrecy wasn’t of course helping in getting to know what would sooner or later be found in the magic box.

“So, who’s this Cas?” Benny managed to ask, all out the sudden for the first time, on a rare occasion where they were both resting after a tough fight, where Dean seemed to be too tired to keep up with any of the constant wariness for once, that was one of the times when they had a somewhat casual conversation for a change of air.

But Because Dean Winchester was constantly having his wits and heart on fire, extracting the answer was a long process.

“Hey, you, don’t get to say that,” the man snapped in a tone that gave Benny the impression he committed a blasphemy of some sort. “Cas,” Dean whispered with irritation. The vampire thought he must have made a very confused face if he was being provided an explanation. The pause was a long one. If there was something behind it, Dean was most likely savoring the word’s lingering echo in his mind. “I get to say Cas.” But then again, it was a shit explanation. It wasn’t even meant to be one, after all. It was a warning.

“Man, no need for rage here. It’s the only thing I’ve been hearing, in what other way do I possibly get to ask that, huh?”

“You don’t,” he got in reply. And Benny dropped it for the time being, because the word was as sharp as Dean’s teeth in the signature loony-bin smile.

*

 

The second time, a few months and shittons of dead bodies later, if by anything, Benny was rather lead by tiredness and frustration rather than curiosity. Probably the same factors that made Dean open his mouth for something that surprisingly was not a hiss. Bothof them were broken and hurt like unruly bitches after a good beating, lying fuck knows where, maybe even awaiting death already. Benny heard Dean muttering right next to him, blood staining his teeth as he cried out, too tired to have it in him too feel bothered with the fact he was not alone this time. Or maybe he was delirious already.

“Cas! I need to find you! I’m coming for you! I can’t live and I can’t even fucking die until I get here, you hear me, Cas? I’ll hunt everything down and I will haunt you like this till I’m there. You better believe me Cas. You better fucking believe, I’ve got you.”

“Why?” Benny asked, too tired to elaborate.

It was one word, but there were many questions in it, not exactly hidden. Why keep on going? Why does it matter? Why even bother, you’re most likely gonna die, we both are if we aren’t lucky? Why do you think you’re heard out there?

“Can’t leave him alone like that, man. He’s crazy. He’s lost his shit, he needs help, he needs me, he’s so fucking alone and the bastard doesn’t even know how to handle a spoon anymore,” Dean cried out.

Benny’s eyes widened at the confession, because first of all, it was a he. Which, in general would not be all that confusing, weren’t it for the interesting detail that Dean’s voice softened so much each time he spoke to him in his prayers, the long lost abandoned humanity returning in his tone, as if he was trying to console a child or a wife. Even then, as he talked about the Angel so openly for the first time, the softness made its way up to his face. A face Benny knew because when he was thinking of Andrea, he wore the same.

Which, all things considered, was odd, because gay or not gay, it would be easier to say because I love him instead of spitting out excuses.

Secondly, but actually the priority discovery for Benny, if the Bathory Fucked in the Head Dean Winchester was referring to his Angel as the crazy one, it really did not bode well for anything. So Benny could only hope that either Dean was projecting his own shit or hope they both would die before they make it.

“Must be a good friend of yours, if you’re willing to do this much just because he went cuckoo,” Benny decided to say instead.

Dean didn’t find that word fitting. Dean didn’t find a word fitting at all. He let out a broken laugh, one that reeked of hopelessness. “He’s Cas,” he offered.

And from the tone Benny could tell it wasn’t a way to dismiss this. The man was being sincere and as open as never before. It’s just that it was the only explanation Dean actually had. Then it hit him. This nutjob didn’t even really know what bit him, or might as well did not want to. It’s like his issues had issues.

“And you’re the dumbest thing I’ve ever seen living.”

“Oh, man. You’re just making me blush.”

“Idiot.”

“It’s a bad compliment if it gets repetitive, you know.”

Benny sighed. It shouldn’t be his business to deal with this shit, but considering the fact that like it or not, if he wants to leave, he’ll have to spend time with both of them. So there. He’s stuck on this bandwagon. He could have it easier or have it more difficult. And he had to admit, aside from being a violent, scary bastard, Dean was a good man after all. Benny understood now. He was no better himself. The only reason he wants out and goes on killing for is Andrea. And he does not regret a moment of it.

“So, buddy. But does…Cas,” he began unsurely, not knowing whether he can use the word or will Dean throw a wounded dog’s equivalent of a fit again. Rewarded only with tensed silence, he went on. “Does he know he’s, you know, Cas?” Benny emphasized the name due to lack of a better word, one that wouldn’t piss Dean off. He could only hope the man understood this question.

“Yeah,” Dean let out a painful chuckle. “Cause I call him that. I get to.”

Yeah, that could be anything all right.

But by the clearing, Benny realized that the ceremony of using each other’s names instead of any other meaningful and appropriate words was something the two had in common. Scary enough, it did work between them. But, he on the other hand, he was a bit lost in translation. Lost genuinely on how did that relationship even work. These two assholes managed to bring out the very best and the very worst out of each other, no in betweens, no lukewarm bullshit. Two different flavors of utter crazy that weren’t supposed to complete each other but somehow did.

 

*

 

Right then, right there at the stream, Benny had witnessed Dean abandoning his ruthlessness and washing off the fake calm and blood lust off his face when the man miraculously went from his combat motherfucker mode to a tender protector and the fucking holy mother in less than a blink of an eye and all that it was to trigger it was a yet distant sight of a ball of dirt and shit that was looking around itself absentmindedly and hesitantly as it heard its name being cried out. Benny registered the Angel murmuring back something that must have been his comrade’s name in a direction that certainly was not the voice’s source. Great, at least the insanity part he got immediately confirmed. Overall, the whole holy grail man made a hardly stunning or angelic impression. On Benny, that is. Because Dean Winchester was struck down breathless, walking on his suddenly stiffened and alien legs towards his feathered mate with the trust of a puppy.

 

Benny did not share that trust. Because once the Angel was declared found, his expression conveyed something far from relief. He looked petrified and his eyes were as a threatened animal’s. And when Dean, suddenly heavy and weary with understanding, decided to throw himself into his feathered friend’s shoulders to dive and die there, his messed up, naïve head finally finding sought for so long solace there – the Angel had shown nothing but panic and self-restraint. Benny was no idiot. “Hot Wings” was quiet but his conscience was screeching wildly and clearly. He was hiding something from Dean all along. Or maybe hiding from Dean, in general. So, first impression? Benny didn’t like that lousy fucker, not one bit. If the whole Heaven consisted of treacherous bastards, no wonder the world ended up being shit. The Angel apparently meant problems and putting everything at risk.

 

Later Benny had learned that he was both right and wrong at the same time.Castiel meant problems. He meant risks. And he spilled that he was hiding. But he was not as much as a lousy fucker as Benny wanted him to be. The Angel did care for Dean, after all, really did. Strangely enough, he used to let it show the most when Dean could not possibly see. But maybe, Benny wondered, it was just, well, a madman’s thing. Had to be. Most of the time, Cas kept bitching that the plan was just a waste of time and trying to prove Dean wrong. When Dean did not see it though, he was praised by Castiel’s eyes and protected by his hands. All the undying devotion and longing in plain sight. And Benny could tell that the love was something so honest and profound it didn’t just astonish, it awed and in its power was more frightening rather than beautiful. In shielding Dean, Castiel was like a lioness mother with nearly limitless strength and an endless passion to protect his machete-bearing cub. 

And that, at least, was the useful part of dragging around the whining little screwball. Thus, having a common interest after all, it would be a wise choice to make an agreement with him. So he sort of did.


	2. Chapter 2

_Benny sometimes couldn’t help but read Castiel as the exact inversed reflection of Dean. Where concern of the Angel’s safety awakened in the man things primal and inhuman, in Castiel’s case the need to protect the man extinguished the whole creeping out otherness, kept bringing him closer and closer to showing weaknesses and humanity._

_Not so “holier-than-thou”, anymore._

_Benny was kind enough not to openly express that comment._

 

***

 

They had an unspoken arrangement, the vampire and him. Under any other circumstances Castiel would not agree on a truce with an abomination. But it was about Dean and for Dean. So he fought no more and remained unaggressive. The only thing they both allowed themselves to do was to exchange a mildly vile remark every now and then. That could not be helped. Still, they would stand each other without biting their limbs off for the sake of Dean’s well being. Neither needed the other. But Dean needed them both. And both needed Dean fixed, not broken. As simple as that, they cared for him and wanted him to be happy, even if their reasons for it differed. And as much as Castiel despised Benny for a) being a contemptible parody of the most perfect creation and b) constantly being an asshole to him, he had to sincerely admit that no matter how hard he tried to and no matter how jealous he ultimately was, he could not find any treacherous intent in the monster’s actions towards Dean, nor was there anything alarming in the relationship of the two. Benny actually liked Dean. And fuck him, but also thank him for that.

 

That is why at nights they were changing shifts. That’s why Benny never complained when Castiel’s stare told him to go away several paces when the time to remain with Dean was his. That’s why Benny never told Dean the truth on the following morning about the fact that instead of four hours of sleep, he slept for ten because Castiel had deliberately let him. That’s why Benny never turned around to look, he just stayed in his solitary spot, his back merely brushing against the angelic warmth that spread around when he returned to his true form partially in order soothe Dean with his grace, to keep him warm, safe and at least for a few hours, free of the burden that forever rested on his shoulders. Because Dean renamed him. He was a shield, but no longer of God. And it has been a while already since he began to see himself as the shield of the man. Humanity – yes. But mostly, he was here to protect this certain man that on this night, just as on many nights before, has been laying on the ground, his head resting upon his lap, comforted and embraced by the silky delicacy of his wings. Covered with dirt, blood, sweat and a worn to shreds trench coat which good days have long ago passed, Dean was drifting in a dream world peacefully at last, oblivious to the fact that he no longer was being cradled by the vessel itself but by far much more.

*

There were many other nights similar to this one. But as time passed by and as closer to the portal they were getting, the more significant these moments of undisturbed intimacy were to Castiel. To Cas. Because he knew that he was meant to stay. And Dean was meant to go. The precious little soul that he held so dearly certainly was not what he deserved, he was not supposed to keep it. He would lose it soon. But before it happens, he finds himself unable to let go. This hurts even more. Dean is still under the soft caress of his warm hands, his remarkable features constantly memorized and admired by his longing eyes. Dean is still here, but he is already being missed, his departure already mourned. Dean’s skin once again gets stained with tears that are not his own. Castiel will wipe them off every now and then, will let his palm rest on the freckled cheek for a while, then he will take it away and restrain himself again. Never for long enough, though. He would always manage to find some unruly locks that need to be taken from Dean’s temple, some invisible dust that even he does not see, but takes it on faith that it’s there and needs to be brushed delicately off, that there are some more tears to wipe for they never really stop coming…don’t they?

*

 

But if there was anyone in need of comforting, anyone deserving serenity and peace on that night and for the nights that are yet to come until all of time is over, it wasn’t Castiel. Not by his own standards, anyway. If Dean was awake, if he could hear it, he would beg to differ. But it was not his call to make this time. Dean deserved rest, Castiel deserved penance. And Castiel chose to make things happen this way. He would deliver both.

So while he could, he was humming through his grace, listening to Dean’s sacred heart beating steadily, making their frequencies match. While he could, he took his righteous man’s hands into his warm grasp. The hands that had done so much good it has outdone all the evil they were forced to perform. The hands that would so beautifully fix and create even though their owner thought all they were able to do was to break. Castiel would stroke this palms with his own, lower his mouth to them and treat the skin with soft, innocent kisses and whispered words of praise. Or they were meant to be such, at least. Yet, all that escaped Castiel’s lips was Dean. Over and over and again. For there were no other lingual constructions in any language the Angel spoke and he did speak every single one to ever exist, no other words that could even begin to describe what Dean meant to Castiel. Dean was the highest praise and the deepest pain. Dean was like creation itself, it brought nothingness into ideas and ideas into existence. Dean was everything. And Castiel would give Dean everything, while he could. Soon would come a day when he can’t no more. It will have to. And it is going to rip both of them to pieces. But it shall not tear their bond asunder. The portal will just do what it must. Yet until it does, Castiel has got things left to do.

Therefore he went on with his routine of keeping Dean’s worries at bay. Sometimes they kept attacking the vulnerable man in his sleep. Castiel would always replace the sinister visions and memories of deaths, pain and failures with pleasant and familiar sights, sounds, smells or tastes. He would bring back Sam, bring apple pies, Impala’s roaring, smell of old paper straight from Bobby’s books, bring his mother’s voice or the first day in school.

But that night when he entered Dean’s dream world to banish whatever had caused him to tense, Castiel found something very different.

*

 

Dean was back at the clearing once again, his surroundings just as they both remembered it. Next to him, Castiel could see his own vessel’s figure standing tensed and silent. The vessel that was already more of Castiel himself rather than a container anymore. He’s grown into it, in a way, and he could not help but wonder whether it was because it had grown into Dean’s heart as well. He saw anxiety and affection blazing through Dean’s eyes like a fire and a feeling of envy struck him down like a weight thrown upon his shoulders. How he was longing for this warmth of Dean’s wondrous eyes, how thirsty he’s been for the loving touch of that blissful hug and how yearning to reciprocate it all, words could not explain and shackles could not hold. This one time, Castiel decided to answer the unspoken call. He would do so now, because back then, he would not bring himself to it. Back then, it still did not work. This time he would dismiss the anxiety instead of making it grow. Even though he knew it would not end good. But he knew just as well that in their situation, all possible moves were painful and wrong. Or maybe, he thought, he was simply trying to justify something that was founded mostly with emotional jealousy and neediness. Whatever it really was, he would never know. But it was already too late. Without any effort he replaced the memory of him with himself. Coincidentally it happened exactly the moment where Dean’s hand reached towards the silhouette, which was food for thought and the second explanation, considering. Somehow, it did not matter anymore.

*

 

Dean’s palm was warm and pleasant. It fitted Castiel’s skin as if he existed only to experience this very moment. He leaned into the touch but dared not to close his eyes. The palm on his cheek was still trembling anxiously and Castiel offered a smile so it could understand that it should not fear. And it stopped being afraid. Tension abandoned the shore as Dean’s hand began to study Castiel’s cheekbone and beard with great urgency, memorizing the texture, the temperature, everything it could get to. But it was not enough, so the other hand had joined to help. Castiel though did not know how to forget that this was what he was not meant to have, to forget that soon he would lose it all and he felt his eyes, locked with Dean’s from the very first touch, filling to the brim with liquid sorrow.

And Dean of course noticed it instantly. He shrunk the small distance between them even more, put an arm around his back and pulled him closer and shushed before he could try to say a word. “It’s okay, Cas. I’ve got you.”

Castiel found it impossible to say no to those eyes. Unsurely and slowly, he raised his arms and locked them in a hug around Dean’s waist, just like he wanted to do the first time but didn’t. His hunter’s muscles loosened considerably under the touch and Dean rested his head on Castiel’s shoulder, breathing slowly and warmly into his neck. Castiel could sense the relief as he allowed his skin to bathe in the contact with Dean’s body. Leaving one hand at his most beloved one’s waist, shyly he ventured with the other to his neck and below the jacket’s collar, getting both of them gasping at their skins finally colliding like this. Castiel’s fingers trailed along Dean’s neck and his shoulders, stroking them gently, circling slowly, massaging lightly to take this burden of nervousness off Dean’s body completely. And that would have been easier without all these layers of clothing covering his back and denying further access to his shoulders. So Castiel grabbed the jacket and tried to take it off. Dean let out a chuckle as his face froze in bewilderment. “Whoa there, tiger, You never liked to waste your time on pansy courtesy, now did you?”

Castiel didn’t even know what his stance for where this implication was obviously going was. “As of now, Dean, I am going to clean you up a little,” he furrowed his brows as he spoke. But rather than like a statement, he sounded somewhat as if he was actually trying to ask a question.

“Whatever your excuse is, Cas,” Dean laughed back.

Castiel grabbed him by the wrist and directed towards the river to prove that this is exactly what he wanted to do. There, he motioned Dean to sit down and when he did, he sat as well. He reached out under his shirt, pulling it up so he could take it off and the very same moment his palms brushed Dean’s skin as he worked his way with the fabric, he noticed Dean’s breathing changing slightly, unnamed tiny sounds coming out of his throat. There was no point in denial, Castiel decided. He could try to classify this as something else, but he was in Dean’s head after all. And he clearly could feel Dean’s arousal. He had no idea how should he answer to that just yet. But he already knew the moment he stepped into this dream. He would do whatever it takes to complete Dean this time.

*

 

Once the shirt was off, Castiel soaked it with water and without a word began to wipe the dirt, blood and weariness out of Dean’s face while his free hand he decided to place where the mark on his shoulder used to be, sending a flare of shivers down his spine. Castiel gripped the spot vehemently without a warning and Dean, shocked and unprepared moaned somewhere into Castiel’s chin, which, unexpectedly to him awoke his own skin in ways he did not remember experiencing. Once he considered his work done, he pulled Dean even closer to himself so he could place a soothing and approving kiss on his forehead. And he did. But before he could take his lips away, and he had to admit to himself, they lingered there for a bit, Dean took hold of his head and lowered it slowly and smoothly, so after going all the way brushing his nose, Castiel’s mouth landed exactly where Dean wanted it to be. Where Dean wanted it to be for so long now, Castiel could tell and the realization stung him sharply. Only he wasn’t allowed to ponder on it at all.

 

Dean’s mouth was warm, soft and urgent. It left a tingling sensation in Castiel’s body that was so strong it made his fingers tremble and curl in Dean’s hair. Castiel did not even know when they got there. Nor he knew when exactly his lips parted and let Dean’s hungry tongue fight its way inside. How it felt against his own was beyond description. Castiel found himself craving all of Dean’s attention and reactions, quickly he attempted to earn it by marking every smallest part of his mouth he could possibly get to. Soon enough he was taking the lead and Dean let him for a moment, humming with content before taking over again, finally allowed to show that he wants Castiel much, much more. When Dean was nearly running out of air, he released from the kiss and chuckled into Castiel’s mouth, which, Castiel had to say, he hardly expected just now.

“What?” he asked hoarsely, staring at Dean with sheer confusion, his senses very far from clarity at that moment.

“Such a shitty liar you are, Cas,” he laughed. “Clean me up, was that so? I didn’t believe you there for a second, pal.”

“Perhaps,” Castiel mused, grinning slightly, but in all this subtlety, seeming even more smug, “you should have taken that as a metaphor, Dean.”

Dean had no reply to that, obviously taken aback, but Castiel registered Dean hardening instantly and decided to count that as an answer. “You’re underestimating me sometimes,” he said.

But it was not about the metaphor, not exactly. Castiel was a good liar. This wasn’t a figure of speech, or at least was not meant to be one. And Castiel was weeping internally even though his mouth was laughing and kissing and savoring once more. Because this was not for Castiel to have. It was not for him to maintain. Not for Dean to have this for real, not to mention forever. The painful knowledge kept aching. It was a part of his punishment, Castiel decided.

 

Somewhere in between touches, kissing and constant pressure of Dean’s body sliding seductively against his, Castiel managed to remove the remains of Dean’s clothing carefully, studying each inch of his burning skin in new context. Castiel knew this body, after all. He remade it. But this circumstances gave it a whole new meaning. It was not a beautifully crafted soul container anymore, it was no piece of art, and obviously not something he would call a belonging of his asshole absent father who surely was not in Heaven. Dean’s body, right now, was a separate entity. A being Castiel needed to invade, conquest and conquer. Or at least, in every way possible - to feel. And he would do so tonight, this once, for he was a warrior and strategist so great that once the Heavens sang about his victories. Castiel couldn’t help but wonder if anything other than his conscience was ever going to sing or scream about this one. Dean on the other hand was considerably more straight down to business about it.

“Fuck your scrubs,” he declared starkly and with that he swiftly tore himself the way to Castiel’s nakedness. “Now we’re talking”.

Castiel could easily sense why was a supposedly innocent set of garments so disturbing to Dean. It reminded the man of Castiel’s breakdown and vulnerability, but more importantly, of the fact that Dean had left him there in that hospital back then. The awareness and guilt were out there, eating out their way through Dean’s skull. Castiel of course had his issues with this particular set of clothing as well. It constantly reminded him of everything that had to happen that he was forced to wear it. And it was a road marked with mistakes, deaths and regrets. Apparently, it was the great outfit of shame for both of them. Somehow, Castiel found himself sincerely and bitterly amused at that.

*

 

Dean eyed him whole with affectionate and visibly satisfied glare. Castiel knew it only because he was in Dean’s dream so he was conscious of his every current experience and reaction. In any other case, he would have seen nothing but his shoulder on which both his mouth and eyes were currently fixed, for the time being forbidding Dean of being silent or making a sound that even resembled human speech.

But Dean’s mouth had new plans. To Castiel’s general confusion, he freed himself from the fierce grasp just so he could place himself between his legs, his wet lips and tongue offering consolation to the part of his body Castiel had not thought to give separate attention just yet.

And once he felt Dean’s mouth closing upon him, he found himself unable to process any actual thought, even though he should have some conclusions, probably. Dean made his first moves, slow and thorough, trying to tease and prepare his still graceful almost virgin Cas at the same time. A slight wind started to blow. Dean raised an eyebrow in suspicion. He eagerly continued and the stream began to boil. He used his hand for a bit of stroking while he allowed his mouth to venture deeper. Upon that Castiel fully arose, just as Dean wanted him to. Upon that as well, lightning crossed the sky and the wind went into a frenzy.

 

Castiel could feel that Dean has been never this excited before. This was an almost too entertaining and risky challenge. Almost. So he sped up his pace and began working him out even more viciously, groaning as he felt the Angel burying his fists into his hair, forcing his mouth to go even deeper. And he shuddered with arousal and awe as he heard his lover let out sounds so low they were animalistic in a way it outdone all the Earth’s animals he could think of, his needy voice loud as a thunder and as demanding as the wrath of God himself. Trembling at the presence of power, Dean Winchester was experiencing the most peculiar case of a turn on physically possible. He decided to stroke himself with his spare hand. Self-pleasuring during an earthquake was in general quite a rare occurrence and it would be a shame not to take the chance. Because that’s what they we’re apparently having, right then. An earthquake. Dean Winchester came during an earthquake and declared it awesome and this was something Castiel was certainly happy to know.

 

Meanwhile, he had no idea how to stop the natural catastrophes from happening, but he’d lie if he said that he actually cared at all at that exact moment. In fact, it would be too much to expect of him to say anything since he was not capable of producing any words at all aside from the occasional “Dean” anytime the man’s mouth performed a trick compared to which creation of the whole universe looked dull, to say the very least. Castiel was on the verge and the nearby grass was on fire. And then that was it. The grass turned into a wall of fire, the water hissed with ferocious heat as it vaporized, the ground stopped shaking, several birds fell dead from the sky, Dean had swallowed whole and it began to rain, putting the fires to peace and offering a cover up for Castiel. For moments later, still breathing heavily, he was crying. He was weeping like a baby, his body trembling and suddenly vulnerable.

Dean of course noticed right away and was by Castiel’s side that very instant and attempted to soothe him with warm, come-stained kisses all over his face, with caressing his temple with one hand and stroking his back with the other, repeating “It’s okay, Cas. I’ve got you” again and again and again. And Castiel cried even harder. Because Dean was always the caretaker, attending everyone else’s needs far ahead of his own, always giving out consolation when he was the one who required it the most, always the one who got hurt in the end. And he would be hurt again, Castiel knew. Because he would leave Dean soon for it was not time for him to remain at his side, Castiel cannot have this, not yet. Castiel sobbed, regretting that Dean had found him. But it did not change anything, it couldn’t. Dean would always find him. Dean did always find him. And there he was now, hugging him tightly, letting go the last thing on his mind, his green eyes piercing his own almost knowingly.

“Please, Cas. It was worth it. It’s gonna be okay, Cas,” he whispered, kissing the trails of his tears, trying to heal the pain with love in the most literal way and it made Castiel feel powerless, mesmerized and lost in the sacrum of the moment. “Let us have this, Cas,” Dean pleaded once more.

And Castiel let Dean have this.

*

 

“I’m sorry, Dean,” he said, meaning it. Meaning this, meaning the past and meaning the future. “Everything is going to be fine, don’t worry,” he added, aiming at now and hoping for the future as well.

“Of course,” Dean nodded, meaning it. Meaning them now, meaning their past and meaning their future.

And it made Castiel feel even more sorry, but he did not show it. He would let Dean have this.

So he stormed him with delicate, almost frenetic, worshipping kisses everywhere he could reach. So he brought their abdomens together and locked it’s finest treasures into his strong grasp, upon his wondrous touch awakening them again, filling them both with electricity that made their lungs cry out for air.

Gasping still, Dean opened his beautiful, terrifying eyes and announced, “It’s time”.

And Castiel knew exactly what he meant, so he kissed Dean once more before touching his forehead to take all the possible pain away, kissed yet again before locking his burning palms around Dean’s loins. And Castiel could tell, they were waiting forever for him to grab them this way, for him to place their trembling master upon him, to take their master as his tribute and light up the hollow temple of Dean with his warmth and presence.

And so Castiel had done.

 

He kissed Dean once more when he carefully helped him get deep and low enough so their mouths could meet as equals. Dean moaned right into Castiel’s lips then embraced as much as he could of his Angel’s chest and spoke “I’ve been waiting for you” only to enigmatically never elaborate with anything more than “now take me”. When Castiel raised an eyebrow at that while raising up Dean on himself for the first time, and thus, taking him as Dean pleased, the man only smiled slyly, almost perfectly hiding his own confusion as of to why he decided to say that exactly.

Castiel did not say anything on the subject, either. He placed a kiss on Dean’s belly and set up a pace that soon would make Dean forget what a coherent thought even was. For that and for everything else, Dean was grateful. And he was happy to writhe under his Angel’s touch for he had finally taken him. And for this, Dean had prayed for four years.

 

Dean did not remember, but Castiel did just fine. When he had finally reached his righteous man in the depths of Hell, Dean stood there, his knife freshly away from his skilled hands, unmoving, unafraid, as if all-knowing like a sage from foreign lands and times.

“I’ve been waiting for you,” Castiel remembered Dean saying. “Now take them,” Castiel recalls the righteous man pointing at the souls suffering on their racks. But Castiel did not listen for he had taken Dean instead, raising his soul up and holding it tight against his burning grace. And Dean was writhing upon Castiel’s touch in despair, because it was not what he had been praying for forty years. Castiel remembered everything.

That’s why they were here.

Exactly in the middle of each other, in the middle of this grand sacrilege, in the middle of this wilderness, as caricatures of Adam and Eve and the Garden of Eden, crying out blasphemies through their mouths, crying out praise one to another through their hands, fulfilling their deepest needs until there were no more.

 

So when there were no more and Dean was sleeping on the grass unaware, exhausted and dirty, Castiel had left the dream and returned his consciousness fully to the corporeal Dean that was sleeping on the grass unaware, dirty and exhausted for reasons other than Castiel’s doing. Watching him that night, Castiel could not decide whether this vivid dream is something this Dean should remember. Watching him the next day, seeing him being all joyful, peacefully lighthearted and relieved for reasons Dean Winchester chose not to speak of, Castiel decided that the memory could in fact, stay.

*

 

Soon enough, it turned out that it was not Castiel’s choice to make.

Because of something that was a choice he made.

Castiel stayed in Purgatory.

That Dean’s mind could not handle.

Castiel stayed in Purgatory, even though Dean somehow knew Cas had taken him in possession.

And that Dean’s mind couldn’t handle.

For as Cas let go as Dean’s mind had let go.


	3. Chapter 3

_Castiel remembers telling Dean in their very beginnings that since he was the one who pulled him out of Hell, he could throw him back in as well._

_And while looking at Dean’s face for the very last time right before the portal could cut them apart once and for all, Castiel thinks that he probably just did._

_What had he just done._

_He never meant to carry out that threat._

_Even if he had to, he never would._

_And yet, it did happen by the fault of his hand._

_Castiel thinks that he finally did with this freedom what God had wanted him to do._

_In a way, he took this length of a rope and hanged both Dean and himself with it._

_Except, Castiel realizes, it is worse. Because neither of them is dead and there is no way to stop the agony._

*

 

Dean lets air go out of his chest heavily and painfully. He’s in the wilderness again. He knows it is not the same one. It’s not because of there being night around him so suddenly. It smells and feels different, this much he knows. And that would be it. The only thing he knows for sure. Or at all. Because just like that, he had lost everything. Everything. And he doesn’t even know just like how, exactly. All he can hear, the sound ripping through his skull like a blunt, rusty blade, is Cas’s hoarse “no!” escaping his mouth right before it ended like this. And it won’t shut up, it won’t leave, it won’t let go.

Another thing that Dean does not know, or at least not anymore, is that the piercing dreadful echo is left behind by his own screaming, with “No” being his secret password and his god damn ultimate answer to everything through the whole ‘back to the shit-ball trip’.

No to Cas pushing him away. No to Cas dying just like that all alone. No to Cas forcing him out the very last second. No to all of this bullshit, Dean Winchester will be having none of this, fuck you very much. No to letting this sink in. No to this fucking bushland, that one was better. This one lacks the essential element. And from now on forever will, no matter where he goes. That, for a change, he allows to sink in while he’s walking towards the source of light that he happened to catch a glimpse of. Wow, he thinks, fuck everything.

 

Out of all the fucking things possible, it’s a fucking tent. As in, with people spending nights together, secluded and perfectly intimate in this endless goddamn nature’s hideout. And it does so fucking much remind him of something that he had and irretrievably just lost. Dean’s seeing red and for a moment there, he really wants to tear this poor sap and his girl a new one. His gun is faithful and ready, but he regains his shit of course, he always does, even though Cas’s pained cry is still a hurricane inside him, making it nearly impossible to see in this mess that his head is, yet he makes it, cause he’s just that tough and he leaves those campers alone. It is not their fault.

Then whose is it?

 

Dean has got around good five hours of marching for the time to figure this answer out. So he does spend it like this, cause it won’t let go. And to choose from all the possible surroundings that aren’t helping, this is fucking really not helping. He winds himself again out in the wild with the machete in his hand, only this time there’s really no point in going. He will find nothing at the end of this path. No stream, clearing, no his Angel, no second strip-down from his bullshit, no purifying breeze making things right and clear within his own feelings. There’s just this big gaping hole of fucking nothing, and it doesn’t matter even if he kills a whole country of ugly mooks on his way, even if he becomes the next Pope model – there’s no reward. He snorts bitterly at the Pope thing. If anything, he’s Ted fucking Bundy already, so someone might as well sit him on the damn electric throne to put him out of his misery for all he cares, but he doesn’t get the consolation prize, either, because there is no one even there, not anymore. Story of his life.

 

As the screaming memory in his mind quiets down eventually, Dean realizes that he misses the sound of the trench coat writhing on the wind and he misses that one of a kind son of a bitch voice that used to whine right behind his ear what seems to be centuries ago, in the time when the journey still had a god damn goal. He wishes at least the scream came back because there is nothing more painful, solitary and empty than this silence. It’s a steel-cold bitch that had gripped his heart in her claws with no intention to ever let go. He won’t get rid of it unless he rips it out of his chest, taking the pain with it. And he doesn’t mean it as the metaphorical shit. He’s being pretty damn literal about this.

By the time Dean is already standing by the road, waiting for nothing in particular, not really interested if he even wants to decide whether he’s actually hoping for a ride or not, he’s strongly convinced that none of it – not Cas’s loss, not those fuckers from that tent, not this place, not this blinding pain, not this sucking void, not this lack of point – fucking none of it is in any way coincidental. He had it fucking coming. He should have never leave something as fragile as Cas all alone. He should have never let him break in the first place.

He’s trying to convince himself that in those circumstances, he tried to do the best he could, though. And he really wants to believe it. But another part of him tells himself to fuck off with this bullshit. Dean nods at it while trying to pretend he didn’t even hear it at all.

He’s going fucking crazy, that’s it.

Jesus, he needs that ride and it better be soon. Psycho or not, he’s got shit to do alright, even if it changes nothing.

*

 

A few days later, when he leaves some poor sap’s truck and embraces his loneliness again, he’s as clean as new but feels filthier than he’s been when he was running around covered with blood, sweat and dirt for the whole year. Wearing fresh clothes and a fresh, fake smile oh his clean, empty face, he knows for certain, he is nothing more but a shell. What was pure and what was him came to and end once he placed his foot in the Maine part of the Appalachian Trail, and its remains, along with his clothes, were abandoned in a dumpster somewhere in Louisiana. He takes a look at his forearm and he laughs bitterly, because, well, what do you know, finally he’s nothing more but damn a vessel, hands down, God wins this one.

 

He keeps on walking until the night finds him, and while he does, Dean can’t help but think about what the amount of time that passed had most likely done to his Cas. It’s been five days, Dean counts wet-eyed, and strikes another knife down his chest as he finds himself wondering whether those sons of bitches had eaten the poor guy whole or if they left him as a fucking carcass to rot in the sun until he’s bones and dust, until he’s nothing, all of this because for the one time too many, Dean Winchester had failed to do his goddamn job.

 

As he’s standing on the cemetery’s grounds, feeling the skin of his hand burn with fire while he’s digging the grave up, slowly returns to him the flood of awareness that he does have an another arm, an arm that could and was supposed fit an Angel as well. There was a time when that was the very point of Dean having any arms at all. And somehow, not having an entity writhing inside it, suddenly makes the vacant limb feel much more worse than the vampire-bearing one. It is like it has withered. Dean doesn’t know how to mend it, so he tries to transfer all of his attention to freeing Benny instead. It turns out to be quite easy and fast. And it could have been as simple with Cas, as well. “Could”, sadly being the operative word.

“The hell took you so long?” Benny asks him without much of a foreplay, obviously either suspecting something or already knowing enough because Benny’s no idiot alright and he can obviously count to three just fine.

“You’re welcome,” Dean deflects because he’s having none of this right now, or, in fact, ever fucking again. “Everything working?” he asks in an attempt to change the subject onto something not that is not being him and has nothing to do with him in general.

“Good enough,” Benny vaguely addresses the question. “So… What now?”

Dean knows too damn well that the son of a bitch isn’t talking about just this exact moment. That’s a question that has got very little to do with the future but all too much with the past. While it is disturbing and slightly frustrating, Dean can’t actually say he’s surprised with the inquisitiveness. Benny always seemed to have a thing for asking him the inappropriate questions. Dean on the other hand had a thing for not liking to answer them.

“Like we talked about, I guess,” he says, nodding, trying to convince himself that this outcome has anything to do with what they all talked about back in Purgatory. Cause frankly speaking, it doesn’t.

“Then this is goodbye,” Benny says sadly, eyeing Dean with worry.

Dean tries to answer that and fails. He opens his mouth but nothing comes out of it. Benny is not the only one who Dean is trying to say goodbye to with this. And maybe that’s why he fails here, he thinks. He just can’t let go, can he?

He forces a second attempt. He changes the topic once more.

“Keep your nose clean, Benny. You hear me?”

“We made it, brother. I can’t believe it,” Benny plays along for once, taking Dean into a reassuring hug.

“You and me both,” Dean answers him, and because he can’t be possibly seen, allows the very last remains of his face’s composure to break as he hears the word “both” coming out of his mouth. Both is one too fucking short, and in this case - it’s no even game changing. It’s game breaking.

When they part, Dean is once again wearing the peculiar expression that is a result of deliberately forging despair into a smile. He isn’t sure how he is going to get there yet, but he’s positive he will reach Sam soon enough. So, since he wasn’t doing any of the pity shit with Benny, he sure as hell is not going to have this with Sammy, either. That is why a well-crafted smile and an emergency kit of appearances is exactly what Dean needs right now, aside of a good plan.


End file.
